Three Words
by earthy4
Summary: The first time Sherlock says it John thinks he must be hearing things.


**Three Words**

**Warnings:** mild swearing, boykissing, tired!John, petulant!Sherlock, SCHMOOP, some angst  
**Notes:** Someday I'll write actual plot and/or porn, but this one just retreads some of the same ground as Distracted. Basically a different story/scene thing, though. Sort of spoilers for the end of 01x03.  
**Standard Disclaimer:**Not my characters; they just happen to have taken up residence in my head. Apologies to Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat/Gatiss, and your teeth, which now probably have cavities.

The first time Sherlock says it John thinks he must be hearing things.

It's been a long day at A&E, after all, and John is very busy not reading the magazine he's got open while Sherlock, sitting slightly too close to him, is almost but not quite resting his head on John's shoulder.

John isn't exactly sure what's going on. Not that he ever is with Sherlock, but things have been different since the pool, even if neither of them has said anything about it. At first they were all awkward with bandages and painkillers and a bleary sense that something was off (aside from the fact that Moriarty got away, of course). Sherlock had been a wretched patient, as was to be expected-worse when, after his broken arm and ribs healed, he'd contracted pneumonia and been in denial about it for a month. John had had to threaten to phone both Mycroft and Lestrade before Sherlock had consented to bed rest (house arrest, he'd said, but by that point John hadn't given a damn what he called it so long as he agreed to set down the mobile and back away slowly).

Anyhow things have been a bit off for awhile. Sherlock's never had much of a sense of personal space, at least as long as John's known him, but the random lapsing into silence and the not-quite-touching has been odd, even for him. John's more or less chalked it up to...well, PTSD, except of course that's not the sort of thing Sherlock's capable of. Anyway, John doesn't mind it, really. In fact he sort of-doesn't think about it. At all. Ever.

So here it's been a tiresome day, and he just wants to relax and continue very blissfully not thinking about things, and then Sherlock goes and says-well. He can't have. John's misheard. Obviously.

"Sorry?" he says, just to clarify.

"You heard me," Sherlock says. It's several moments before he looks up and sees John's still staring at him. "Problem?"

"No, only it's-" But he flounders with Sherlock's eyes on him and can only finish lamely, "-not something people just...say."

"Isn't it?"

" _No_," John says firmly. "Not if they don't mean it." (Not if they don't-? God, what is he, a twelve-year-old girl? John resolves to give up speaking. Permanently.)

"You think I don't mean it?" Sherlock's expression is hard to read. Curiosity? Confusion? Something else? Why can't his face just stay _still_long enough for John to-?

"Do you?" (So much for that resolution.)

Sherlock snorts. "I would've thought it was obvious."

"Not to me."

John can practically see it: The immediate, snide response that comes to Sherlock's mind; the exact moment when he stops himself from saying it; the confusion it causes him, that he'd bother to modify his behavior at all.

"You were there," Sherlock says after a moment. "You heard what Moriarty said. Unlikely as it seems, he appears to have figured it out before I did, which means it's a liability. Naturally I had to do some experimentation-"

John shakes his head, gets to his feet, does something that sounds a bit like laughing except that it's hard and dry and comes from someplace in his gut he doesn't like to remember exists. Of course. Of _course_.

"-and I find that-" Sherlock stops, apparently realizing he's losing his audience. "John?"

"This is an experiment," John says. "This is your crazy, twisted idea of-"

"No, don't you _listen_? _Before _was the testing period. I couldn't just accept that he was right, but of course he had a good vantage point, probably had us watched for months, saw how you always came after me-stupid and unnecessary, I might add-"

"So what was I supposed to do?" John demands. "Not care if you destroyed yourself?"

"_Yes_!" says Sherlock, his voice unbearably sharp. "Caring is weak, I _told_ you, it's unhelpful and hateful and pointless, it mucks up the system, makes it harder to _think_-"

"Oh, fine then, I'll just shut off my humanity, shall I, to make things easier for you."

Sherlock doesn't look up, doesn't say anything, and that's when John realizes-oh. _Oh_. That's _exactly_ what Sherlock's done. He's somehow been able to turn it off, delete it, forget it exists. It's not just that he's an insufferable prat; it's survival instinct, the only way he knows how to get by in his strange, not-quite-real world. John's suspected, of course, but it's never really been laid bare like this, just how far Sherlock's gone with it. Of course he's brilliant, of course he's mad, because he's never let himself be anything else. _Anything _else. It goes beyond a bit of sociopathy or conditioning or selective deletion; it's...well. It's awful.

"It hurts," Sherlock says in a small, ragged voice.

"It's not supposed to," John says-and it's sort of a lie, or at least not quite true, because of course caring hurts, like when the person you care about rides off in a cab driven by a serial murderer or refuses to run from a consulting criminal even after you've given him a perfectly decent chance or when he gets himself repeatedly strangled and doesn't think to tell you about it until you see the marks on his neck much later, but that's not all it is. Sometimes caring means a ridiculous, exhilarating dash across London at night or an unexpected laugh at a crime scene or being so in synch with someone else that it's like they're a part of you, and _God_, what if no one's ever actually told Sherlock that? What if he's really never-?

"You meant it," John says.

"Of course I meant it," Sherlock snaps. "Why would I say something so completely awful if I didn't mean it?"

The corner of John's mouth twitches. "It's completely awful, is it? Being in love with me?"

"Wretched," Sherlock says. "Horrible. Ruined three experiments just this week because the coagulated blood was the same color as your eyes."

John chokes on something that might be a laugh.

"S'not funny," Sherlock mumbles, head in his hands.

"Certainly not," John agrees solemnly, shaking his head. He crouches down in front of Sherlock, puts a hand on his arm. "Can you look up a minute?"

Sherlock mutters something that sounds like, "No."

"It's just-it's going to be very hard to kiss you if you've got your head down like that."

He looks up then, of course, frowning and perplexed. "Why would you-?"

"Because I love you too, you daft madman, and unlike some people around here, I intend to do something about it besides sulk."

Sherlock blinks. "You-oh. I-that's-"

John's not so good at containing the grin as he puts a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and pulls him forward, gently but firmly, until they're kissing. For a moment John's doing all the work (brief panic-what if he's wrong, what if it's too much too soon, what if-?) but then Sherlock's got a fist in John's jumper and is pulling him in, half laughing, half gasping into John's mouth.

It doesn't last nearly long enough since they're in such an awkward position, and John's just considering how to remedy that when Sherlock says against John's shoulder, "I don't-I've never-"

"Not your area, I know," John says. "But I'm betting you're a fast learner."

Sherlock smirks. "Very fast."

John snorts and kisses him again.


End file.
